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Blanch Guts

I’m may not be anonymous

I’m predisposed to mostly white.

Paled by  charming powder puffs

under any paltry day or night.

I may not be anonymous

I may appear big, small heavy and then light.

one little line of chronic

then it’s down & up  1000s   hillside slopes to cut the gluttonous lust.

It grows in fervour

diminishes all care.

If time is money

then it’s wasted to card dealing chancers

who think it is fair in the twilight

 to fight this addiction to an eating disorder.

 sizes me up

rounds me in

 Heard in

cattle calls

Not time to feed but blanch Guts away to her final slaughter.

Why do I want to change my hues?

 Tie Dye?

Or maybe these words are a whitewash of denial or a statement covering up a fat lie.

 

Line of Deliverance

In the shadowed shades of my blues.

I tenderly look for another who I can summon as one who lives life in honor,

Of all that is true.

Those who speak the spoken word in all its iridescent hues.

Colors drape my inner wardrobe.

Yet, I clamber for my grey, nuances of noir.

Catastrophizing all the whites for showing up my yellow gnashers.

Against a blustery pale backdrop of mountain blanketed by capped ice.

Brazen, I stand on the highest peak.

Cheeks misted by tears.

Contemplative in being joyful for the moments of inner peace.

Cast out this unwanted wardrobe.

No more to colours in clandestine!

The drab shabby (not so chic) curtains concealing my true identity.

My make up is not for every entity.

I’m asked to write the truest sentence I know.

Hemingway knew a way to interweave words worth more than bread made from the finest patisserie dough.

Scraping pennies to get by the hard knocks.

We do what we gotta do to get by.

Poverty causes ‘bros before hoes’ and ‘chicks before pricks’.

Keeping my pins steady as balls curve to nebulant sides — it incites fear into my inner stream of consciousness, dialogue conflicts –

Savaged by doubt and insecurity.

I’m on a trip with a Make believe demeanor.

One to conjure up more stamina and longevity-

To warn my inner Hecate to hesitate before she dare pro-curate.

Write to recover through seeping, bandaged wounds.

Riddling the mind with infectious curiosity,

To want knowledge is the power I crave.

It’s my security.

Droplets of lonely anguish torments my darkest spell.

I am the white temptress tempted to awaken the beast inside.

Though, I know it will be the catalyst to an eternity of mocking turmoil.

My final destination is not the country I occupy.

I’m an immigrant

I’m a traitor.

Colonized and imprisoned by outdated Imperialists.

The world is full of egoistical folk in full throws of the delirium tremors.

Murmurs of fragile Life keeps me close to the fire.

It scintillates what I know is inside — lying dormant.

Ready to drive out the cancers multiplying with faces frozen,

In that blissful look of the ignorant .

I raise my sword.

It bleeds ink.

It is my heart : my deliverance.

I can’t fathom another way to jolt my instincts to kick out, and rise to take another breath.

I’m the one who needs these murky waters to survive . Forget I too need oxygen and gills to stabilize my Eco system.

If my world was captured by a drone;

I would want it to show me evolved into a hybridized pro-humanity amphibian.

Swimming side by side

dolphins & whales ad infinitum.

Cheerio escapee

Intense

Too much so dispense

Emotions ladled with cheerios

Not fun when rotund escapees flee from the nick.

Allow inner self respect to dictate your tone.

I digress,

I can write.

I can.

It’s a ‘happening’ .

I’m not doing this out of lust or hate.

Per chance,I did go to heaven or indeed another similar place-

that night

ICU

14 hours unconscious and not one recollection — not even my mother thumbing rosary beads

A doctor shakes his head

This patient is not good. prepare yourself, Madre

Rely on myself. Thanks fam for keeping me in Santa’s good books.

I’m already a well established drama telethon.

Damn I don’t need extra baggage-unless I can pay for it.

Even then should you allow me to?

Excess mass – Ovid thinks I’m Italian.

Rivaled Jesus

I fell off that mountain – Artemis mouthed out the word,

splat!

Yeah that is a fact.

12 Caesars rendered him an asylum seeker in religious scriptures.

Buck a wheat

mind your feet.

I’ve stopped caring.

Wait up!

I care enough to share my time, my belongings even..

I’ve stopped crying over boys sti growing into men

who provoke Life to ankle bite at 11th hour on the clock face

Solemn how it stare.

Routine attacks-skin rendered ready for a dose of reupholstery.

I do care.

I am kind.

I’m immune to people and places that hold me as a

syndronised Swedish ball,

slurpie, slush puppy.

Made in Stockholm.

Rhese are justwords,

it’s not about defining what this is or isn’t.

Conversations are a top way to parlez vous

You

Who?

Chapeaux -we have come to untether my very end.

If you don’t feel a vibe speak not in tongues or a form of verbose

Mutterings.

I’m not one for stuttering.

I guess I’m fickle too

I thought I fell harder way more than I have.

What does love for a soul mate feel like?

Two hands framed by a scarf around a neck?

Blue Smurfette isn’t down on my list of taboos to do.

One step

A few words…

Keep talking ,

keep laughing ,

keep crying.

Whatever you do — sweet heart — remember to stay true to you.

Me?

Yes, love — number one.

I’ve got you .